Dancing with Gravity Read online

  Even though the two men were in many ways dissimilar, they had forged a fast friendship in seminary that had lasted through the years since. They regularly exchanged letters with news of their lives, shared their thoughts on issues of religion and world events, and recommended books or movies to one another. They also shared an occasional phone call—although both men preferred letters.

  Whiting had not seen his friend in more than ten years—the realization came as a small shock. He had so much to say to him—so much that was in his heart and mind—and he allowed himself to imagine their warm greeting, the easy rekindling of their late-night conversations from earlier years. But then, after a few moments of this reverie, he stopped short. This is no ordinary visit. Jerry is seriously ill. The idea was incredible.

  St. Benedict House was bequeathed to the Fathers of the Sacred Wounds of Christ in 1964. The ninteenth century mansion—a fine, federalist-style structure in a historic neighborhood a few miles from the medical center—now served as a study center and short-term residence for up to ten priests. As Whiting pulled up in front of the house, a strange mixture of feelings came over him. He had visited on numerous occasions when he was in seminary and had even lived in the house for a year after his ordination. But it had been more than a decade since he had last set foot inside, and coming back now was painful—not just for the memories it rekindled, but for the distance in time and experience that it represented. His sense of disconnection came as a revelation.

  “It will be good for me to see Jerry, to rekindle our friendship,” he said aloud. “Good for both of us—especially now.”

  As he climbed the steps to the wide porch he tried to recapture what his younger version may have thought or felt. What had he looked forward to, dreamed of, imagined his life would be like? The questions were unanswerable. The man he had been was a mystery, as closed and unknowable as any stranger he might happen upon during his daily rounds.

  He told the receptionist that he had come to take Father Stemple to the hospital and then went into the living room to wait. He roamed the dark-paneled room, testing the sights and smells of the house against his memories and searching for something that might close the great distance he felt at being in this place again. The room had a well-worn air, but it also showed the effects of constant attention and care. He passed before the bookshelves and glass cabinets but could not concentrate on their contents. He circled the deep leather chairs, but did not sit down. The thought of seeing Stemple for the first time preoccupied him, and he needed to prepare himself for how his friend might look.

  Through the years, he had seen many cancer patients in the hospital. The disease—or its treatment—had horribly disfigured some of them. Early in his work at St. Theresa’s he learned that he must never show his shock or betray anything that might add to a patient’s suffering—even though his own reactions were often intense. Still, he could hardly bear the surprise of these patients’ extreme deformities. It was a secret weakness in him—one he both disliked and mistrusted. He always feared that the time could come when he might not be properly prepared, might fail someone who looked to him for help, acceptance, or hope. In the hospital, he knew what was expected of him, and, so far, he had been able to rise to the need. But this was different. This was Jerry.

  Someone spoke on the telephone at the top of the stairs and Whiting suddenly remembered that the priests had shared a single phone. The simplicity of this moved him. He tried to remember using that phone, making or receiving calls, but those images would not come. Voices amid the clatter of dishes drifted to him from down the hall. Several of the priests had gathered for their mid-day meal. He edged closer to the dining room and closed his eyes. Their words were muffled, but he had eaten hundreds of such meals in this house and could guess the tenor and the content of their conversations: Central America, the Papacy, Holy Orders. Even this knowledge, however, could not bridge his sense of isolation—a feeling so complete that he imagined he could walk into the dining room, stand near the table, listen to each word, watch each gesture, and yet remain invisible. The idea both frightened and fascinated him.

  “Ah, listening at doors. A Machiavellian gesture or the mark of a lonely man.” Whiting knew at once that the voice was directed at him. He spun around to face the person who had addressed him. Stemple stood at the entrance to the living room, smiling.

  In his confusion and anxiety, Whiting did not immediately recognize him. Stemple’s face was pale and the flesh hung loosely at his neck and jaw. Deep lines creased his forehead and mouth. His close-cropped hair had gone completely gray.

  When the apparition resolved itself into his friend, Whiting crossed the room and hugged him. He could feel Stemple’s shoulder blades, vertebrae, and ribs through his jacket. Afraid that this embrace may have been too tight, Whiting pulled back.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “I’m thin, Sam, but I’m not fragile. Don’t worry, you probably did me more good with that greeting than my last six radiation treatments combined.”

  Whiting looked past Stemple, through the burnt white windows of dying winter. He stole another look at the priest, whose jacket, he now saw, gaped at his neck and shoulders. Stemple’s appearance gave him an air of vulnerability that made Whiting feel strangely embarrassed.

  “I hope I haven’t taken you from anything pressing at work,” Jerry added. “It seems a ridiculous inconvenience that you should have to leave the hospital only to take me there.”

  “I’m just glad I can help. The drive is only minutes. Besides, it seems so little for me to do.” Whiting’s voice caught. His eyes misted. “I was away when your letter arrived. I had no idea ….” He stopped mid-sentence and looked helplessly at his friend.

  “Don’t regret not knowing, Sam. Think of it, instead, as a gift.” He considered a few moments before continuing. “I remember what it was like before my diagnosis, before I knew. Next to my health, my innocence is what I miss the most.”

  In Stemple’s words, Whiting heard grief, acceptance, and something else: a relationship with his illness that reduced Whiting to the role of outsider. He felt powerless. Worse, he felt that his friend, like St. Benedict House itself, had slipped away from him.

  Stemple turned without saying anything more, took up a black trench coat that lay across the back of a chair, and walked out to the foyer. His sudden movement took Whiting by surprise, and it took him several long strides to catch up.

  “The weather is lovely. You won’t need the coat.”

  “I get cold, Sam.” He put on the coat and buttoned it up to his neck. “Now, let’s not keep them waiting.”

  Once outside, Stemple held onto the railing, quickly descended the stairs, and then got into the car without assistance. Whiting was surprised by his agility, but when he got in, he saw the cost of Stemple’s exertion on his face—he was ashen and was breathing hard through thin, pursed lips.

  “Are you all right?”

  Stemple dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. “Just drive.”

  As he headed back toward St. Theresa’s, Whiting struggled to reconcile his memories with the reality of the man sitting beside him. Jerry was six years older and, although the age difference hardly mattered now, in seminary it seemed to endow Stemple with exceptional wisdom and self-assurance. But it had been more than just their ages. Jerry embodied the strong faith and genuine warmth that Whiting wished for himself. The other seminarians often sought out Stemple for advice and companionship. Even so, Jerry always made time for me. He encouraged me, nurtured me. Whiting thought back to their late night discussions about God and the meaning of their vocations. Jerry was always so sure of his calling. Stemple had come from a large Catholic family—most of them teachers. Whiting had been fascinated by their closeness and tradition—something he had never experienced. When he thought of his own family—just his mother, there was no one else—he felt an ill-defined sense of loss and failure. Stemple seemed to understand this and did not press
him about his home life. Instead, he shared stories about his relatives and even took Whiting to visit them. They, too, had welcomed him without question.

  But this remembered warmth and sense of inclusion were now so lacking that Whiting found it hard to believe the person beside him was still his closest friend. He glanced at Stemple, who sat with his hands folded on his lap, staring out the windshield. He looked small and old.

  Whiting tried to imagine that they were on a trip together, after their years apart—that they were driving to see Stemple’s brothers and sisters again or that they were just beginning a vacation. But there was no joy in their reunion, no sense of expectation. Reluctantly, he admitted the real purpose of their drive, and sank into his assignment.

  In the silence between them, he turned his attention to Stemple’s comfort. He switched on the car’s heater and gently nudged the vents in the priest’s direction. But the car soon became stuffy. Whiting rolled down his window to get some air. When he saw Jerry clutch his coat to his neck, he rolled up the window and again turned on the heat. He drove more slowly than usual and took turns at a crawl, so as not to jostle his friend. If Stemple noticed any of this, he gave no indication.

  Several times Whiting thought of pointing out sights along their route, but these things seemed, after all, to be quite unimportant when compared to the treatment Jerry would have to endure. Is he thinking about it now? Dreading it? What does he think about his cancer? His prognosis? It occurred to him that Stemple had not told him any of these things—that he had never even mentioned symptoms in any of his letters. Why? Although he wanted to ask him about this, the man who sat beside him now seemed such a stranger that Whiting decided he had no right to ask.

  When they arrived at St. Theresa’s, Stemple directed Whiting toward a special parking area reserved for radiation therapy patients. The garage was a hive of activity. Two attendants stood at the entrance and distributed parking stubs while a hospital security guard directed the constant flow of traffic. Whiting worried that his employee parking sticker would prohibit him from parking in the patient area. What if the security guard turns me away? What if I can’t get Jerry to his treatment on time? He tensed and stared at the guard, willing him to turn, to look at him, to see he was a priest with a very sick man in the car, and to allow him to proceed. To his relief, the guard waved him in with the other cars.

  “Give me the parking ticket,” Jerry said. “I’ll get it stamped when we’re in radiation. That way parking is free.” Stemple took the ticket and placed it in his left breast pocket.

  Whiting made a right turn and snaked past the rows of parked cars, descending the ramp, deeper into the underground garage. He finally found an empty spot, parked, and went around to help Jerry from the car. Jerry moved slowly and steadied himself on the fender.

  “Do you want a wheelchair?”

  “Where are we parked?”

  “Fourth level, maybe. I’m not sure. Do you need help getting to the door?”

  “You have to tell me where we are exactly.” His anxiety was palpable.

  “I don’t know exactly—”

  “Look up!” Stemple jabbed the air with his index finger. Whiting was surprised by his tone. When he looked at the overhang above his car, he saw that this space was identified with a letter and number, as were all the others in the row. “Well, Sam, what does it say?”

  Whiting stepped back and read the sign. “H 47. Why?” Ignoring the question, Stemple took the parking ticket and a pencil from his coat pocket.

  “H 47?”

  “Yes, but ….”

  Stemple wrote the number of the parking space on the back of the ticket, and then returned the pencil and ticket to his pocket. “This way, we won’t get lost.” Whiting’s eyes misted and he looked away.

  The two priests walked slowly up the parking ramp toward the hospital. At the top of the incline, cars stuttered past knots of pedestrians. Stemple leaned against a concrete traffic barrier to catch his breath. A security guard blew his whistle and motioned them across the white painted lines of the crosswalk.

  “Thus it begins,” said Stemple. “They infantilize us. They demand we obey their arbitrary rules.” He raised his voice and added, “Abandon independence, all ye who enter here.”

  Whiting smiled weakly, but could not ignore his own growing sense of vulnerability—a feeling that something cold and impersonal was pressing in on him. Stemple took Whiting’s arm. It was the gesture of an old man—disturbing and unfamiliar.

  “Do you want me to let you out at the front door next time? That way, you won’t have to walk all that distance in the garage.”

  “I like the fresh air.”

  “In the garage?” Whiting smiled. “I don’t think car exhaust qualifies.”

  Jerry shot him a sidelong glance; Whiting fell silent. They rode the escalator up two flights emerging at the pedestrian bridge to the hospital. Illness has changed him. I’ve got to learn how to be his friend again.

  Jerry paused mid-way across the glass-enclosed overpass. “It’s so pretty when it’s sunny. But today, with all the clouds, it seems sort of dreary.” Whiting looked out the window to the street below. A line of cars, their blinkers on, waited to enter the garage. Who are all those people? What are their stories’? Are they coming to be healed—or to die?

  Once inside the hospital, Whiting’s uneasiness increased. His surroundings were familiar, but these circumstances made him feel a stranger in his own life. He kept his eyes toward the floor as he walked, hoping to avoid seeing anyone he knew.

  At last they arrived at the Radiology Department. Once a separate institute, it had long since been absorbed by the sprawling additions of St. Theresa’s. The glass doors opened with a rush of air, and the two priests entered the green marble lobby. As soon as the doors closed behind them, Whiting was surprised at the silence of the space, even in the midst of the busy hospital. He paused momentarily, taking in the high, ornamented ceiling and great bronze clock of the once-separate structure. A fresco of workers gathering wheat adorned the far wall. It felt like a bank. Jerry leaned heavily on Whiting’s arm—visibly winded.

  “Are you all right? Are you sure you don’t want a wheelchair?”

  Jerry shook his head. “I know we go down, Sam, but I can’t remember the room number.”

  The lighted directory was at the other end of the lobby. Whiting left Jerry’s side with the trepidation of someone who positions a vase, then steps back, arms extended, half expecting it to fall. He crossed quickly to read the sign, then returned to Jerry’s side.

  “It’s three floors below us,” he said. “We’ll take the elevator.” He pressed the down button.

  “Ah, yes, the bowels of the hospital, now I remember.” Whiting smiled at his friend’s description. “What do you think they’re trying to tell us, Sam?” Whiting’s smile faded.

  “It’s probably more practical than editorial. I’m sure the place is encased in lead.”

  “Maybe the lead is simply an excuse. Perhaps they only want to keep us hidden away, like some terrible secret.”

  As the two priests waited, several uniformed staff passed up the elevators for the stairs. Whiting listened to the squeaks of their rubber-soled shoes on the marble steps as the door to the stairwell closed slowly behind them.

  An orderly transporting an old woman in a wheelchair joined them. The woman was small and wore two bathrobes over her hospital gown. Her bony face was a dusky orange, her eyes were closed, and she emitted a gurgling sound with each breath. Whiting was appalled that someone so obviously frail was getting radiation, but then was shocked by his own opinion. Maybe she’s just napping—or medicated. His observations felt forced, contrived. He glanced over at Stemple and saw that he, too, studied the old woman. Does he share this dark view? Or is he more merciful? A more loving person? A better priest? A wave of irritation passed over him. Of course he has compassion—he’s a patient too. Revolted by his own cynicism, he decided that Jerry felt genuine empath
y.

  A tall, balding man in an overcoat and saddle shoes joined them at the elevator and pressed the up button. Within seconds, his elevator arrived.

  Jerry was visibly agitated. “We must have missed the down elevator. Maybe we should take this one.” His voice was strained with emotion.

  “Of course we didn’t miss it. We’ve been standing here the entire time. It’s just very slow.”

  Jerry cast Whiting an anxious look, which brought him up short. He softened his tone.

  “Look, the down button is still lit. It wouldn’t be the case if the elevator had arrived.”

  Jerry turned his attention to the button and studied it, as if seeing it for the first time. A moment later, a bell sounded, and the down elevator doors opened. After the orderly pushed the woman on, Whiting held the door open for Jerry.

  Two uniformed ambulance drivers came around the corner with a patient on a stretcher. “Hold the elevator, please,” called one of them.

  The orderly pressed a button to keep the doors open; the priests moved to the opposite side of the car and stood in front of the wheelchair so the stretcher would have room. The drivers transported an old man wrapped in blankets. A large flap of skin protruded from his forehead like a horn. The skin, which was much darker than the rest of his face, was sewn at one end over the man’s right cheek. Even with the blankets, the old man did not appear to take up much room on the stretcher. His eyes were closed, but Whiting did not think he was sleeping. His eyes are shut because he knows that people stare. Because he doesn’t want to see their reactions.

  Whiting could not take his eyes from the brown and leathery graft. He wondered if the radiation therapy had turned the skin brown or whether it had been a bad match from the beginning. He had read somewhere that grafts were sometimes taken from pigs. Studying the horn of skin, he decided this had been the case with the old man. A dressing, perhaps two inches across, covered the man’s left cheek. The cancer has spread. The man’s head was hyper-extended and the tendons of his neck pressed against his papery skin. He had almost no hair—the few white strands that remained had been cut close. Seeing his profile, Whiting was reminded of Michelangelo’s studies of the human head. He tried to think of Italy now, but the crowded elevator with its odors of Betadine and illness made it impossible.